* * * * *
Two days later, I was in the kitchen getting Deacon, who was hammering on my roof in the hot sun, a cool drink when I heard a knock at my door.
I set the glass of ice water aside and moved to the front door, opening it to find my new renter there looking unhappy.
This was not a surprise.
I’d left Deacon on the roof so I could hang out in the house and wait for him and his family because I knew they were checking in that day. They checked in and he was surly when they did. No one was surly when they were checking in to fabulous cabins by a river in the Colorado Mountains. No one except someone who was always surly.
“Hello, Mr. Snyder, how can I help you?”
“This is unacceptable.”
Wonderful.
“What’s unacceptable?” I asked,
“There are no towels,” he answered.
I nodded my head in confirmation, explaining, “It states clearly in my terms and conditions, which you’re asked to click on prior to booking, that I don’t provide towels.”
“No one reads terms and conditions,” he retorted.
What an idiot.
“I’m sorry if you didn’t, Mr. Snyder, but it’s spelled out there. I also note the same in the cabin descriptions on my website, which you booked through.”
“I just looked at the pictures,” he told me. “And now I have a wife, two kids, myself, a week in that cabin, and no towels. What are we supposed to do when we take showers?”
“This has happened before, of course, so I have towels you can rent for the week.”
His brows shot up. “Rent? For extra?”
“Yes, five dollars a towel.”
“We’ll each need more than one, being here a week.”
“I have several, but it’s still five dollars a towel.”
“That’s outrageous,” he snapped.
It absolutely wasn’t.
“I’m sorry you feel that way. But there’s a store in town that carries linens. They have towels.”
“So I spend ridiculous money on towels I don’t need at home?” he asked.
“I’m not sure what to tell you. You accepted the terms when you booked. You can rent towels or you can go to town and buy them. Either way, it’s worth a trip into town. There are a couple of lovely stores, a fantastic coffee shop, and a few good restaurants.”
“I didn’t come up here for you to play tour guide,” he bit out nastily.
That was when I felt it. I felt it before I saw it.
So my eyes moved beyond Mr. Snyder at my door to the porch steps to see Deacon standing one down from the top, his arms crossed on his wide chest, the ends of his hair wet with sweat from the work he was doing, looking gorgeous and scary.
“We got a problem here?” he asked and Snyder turned to him.
“Who are you?” he demanded to know.